"You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. "'Sblood!" cried Jonathan, who had listened to the foregoing conversation with angry wonder, "I've been nicely done here. Cast off this weakness. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me.
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